


you can't deny you want the happy ending; or (500) Days of Eames

by liketheroad



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:54:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketheroad/pseuds/liketheroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(500) Days of Summer/Grad School AU/Inception FUSION FIC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can't deny you want the happy ending; or (500) Days of Eames

(Day 203)

“Have you ever been in love?”

“No,” she answers automatically, honestly.

“That’s good, because I think it might actually be the worst thing that could happen to a person.”

“What?”

“Love.”

She leans closer to him at the bar, risking a hand on his elbow. It’s either a good or a very bad sign that Arthur doesn’t shake her off, the way he usually bristles at any and all physical contact. Well, with a few exceptions.

“Why do you say that? The poets seem to think love is grand.”

Arthur looks at her balefully, and says, “That’s because none of them were in love with Eames,” before burying his face in his hands.

Ariadne orders him another drink.

(Day 1, 825)

“Eames, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he snaps immediately, looking and soundly mildly offended. “I’m winning him back. With heartfelt grand gestures.” He pauses to consider, and then adds, “And possibly singing.”

“Singing?”

Eames nods and downs a shot, already motioning for another. “Arthur loves singing. Didn’t he ever tell you that?”

Ariadne makes an exasperated sound at the back of her throat, glaring at Eames before looking away in disgust. “Okay, let me rephrase. _Why_ are you doing this? Why now?”

Eames shrugs, glancing anxiously in the direction of the bartender, who is serving a pair of pretty blondes and ignoring him. He sighs, giving up, and turns back to her. “I’m embarking on my brilliant campaign now, dear Ariadne, because _now_ is the first time in years he hasn’t had a good enough excuse to avoid being in the same room with me. The time, as they say, is ripe.”

Ariadne sighs again, harder this time, if possible. “What about the time when you were _actually_ dating him? That time wasn’t quite ripe enough for you?”

Eames looks back and forth from her to the bartender, but his expression never loses its despairing quality, so she can’t tell if it’s about her questions or his lack of a fresh shot of jagermeister.

“Well, I wasn’t quite as bright back then, was I?” he finally answers her with a grimace.

Ariadne almost feels sympathy for him, just for a moment. Then she remembers all the nights, all the months, Arthur spent silent in their dorm room, refusing to talk to her, or anyone. Refusing to do anything but work, to the point where he barely even took time to eat, or sleep. The fact that Arthur’s dissertation had been on paradoxes within dreams, and had a chapter that required actual field work was probably the only reason he was still alive. That and sheer stubbornness, anyway.

“I will never understand how anyone could be _that_ stupid,” she responds, putting all those months worth of hostility into her tone.

Eames jerks away from her a little, elbows no longer resting indolently against the bar, and he spits out, as though he can’t stop himself, “I wasn’t just stupid, I was _scared_.”

Ariadne stares at him incredulously. “Scared of what? Of Arthur? Why? You had nothing to be scared of - he _told_ you he loved you, I know he did!” She’s sure, certain, because she’s the one who convinced that Arthur he should.

She hasn’t been able to forgive herself for that mistake any more than she has been able to forgive Eames for how he reacted after Arthur told him.

But here Eames is, all these years later, scoffing at her like she’s making it up. “I _know_ he told you,” she insists. Arthur has never lied to her, and he said he kept his promise to tell Eames, so that’s all she needs to know.

Eames shakes his head, all the same, and says, “Is that what you think? How easy that must make it to assume all blame away from Arthur and onto my shoulders. And not a bad idea, either. I’ll be the first to admit I was a right arse to him, next to useless. But do you want to know what he _actually_ said to me?”

“What?” she finds herself asking, voice oddly faint. She’s never seen Eames look so... _sincere_.

He leans closer, hands waving conspiratorially, and says, “I remember it perfectly, because he did it with such an air of importance, taking my hand and looking directly into my eyes, he said, _Given my understanding of the accepted definition of the term, I love you._ ” Eames faces darkens as he says this, as though the memory still haunts him, even now. “And you should have seen his face, his face was my favorite bit. So _pained_. As though it was the worst thing that had ever happened to anyone, his definition of loving of me.”

After a long moment’s contemplation, she reaches out, and puts her hand on Eames’ shoulder. He finally has his new shot, but he sits there, not drinking it, and lets her keep her hand where it is.

(Day 1)

Arthur’s been working towards this for years. Perfect grades through prep school, through college. Exemplary performance in basic training, off the charts GRE scores and SAT’s.

After all the years of working, of fighting, and it’s finally come: his first day of grad school.

And not just _any_ grad school, either. He’s going to be studying with the best of the best, part of the most exclusive program in his field, teaching him to combine advanced architectural work with psychological extraction within shared dreams. And he’ll be studying with Dr. Miles Renald, the foremost dream architect and his two brightest, Dominic and Mal Cobb.

He’s too cautious to be excited, there’s no point getting ahead of himself. But he’s full of steely resolve, full of focus and determination. He won’t let any of the challenges he faces here be ones he can’t conquer.

One such challenge presents itself in his fellow students. In addition to being the best, the program is highly competitive, to the point where there is only one other grad student coming into the department in his cohort, and, to make matters all the more stressful, they’ll be sharing a room.

His new roommate and potential academic rival is called Ariadne, and despite himself he likes her immediately.

She proves herself to be dry-witted and brilliant in the first five minutes of knowing her, and within 20, he thinks he might actually be glad they’re sharing a room.

“Well, I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? At first I thought it was a little medieval, forcing us to live with our only real competition for status and grant money, but then I realized, this really _isn’t_ the normal world of academia anymore. We don’t need independence, we need _unity_ , we need to understand each other as well as we understand ourselves, so that when we dream together, there won’t be anything unexpected for the other to find. We have to know all of each other’s secrets.”

He stares at her, feeling slightly nauseous at the implication. She notices him paling, and he explains, “I’m a very private person.”

She grins at him. “Not anymore,” and promptly drags him out of their room.

As they exit the building, she informs him that they’re going to walk until they find the closest bar, and then they’re going to get very drunk.

He trails after to her the whole way, realizing with growing horror that she’s taking this far more calmly than he is. He’s busy running through everything he’s taught himself about defending his own subconscious in his head, and she’s just nonchalantly debating which kind of beer to drink.

He’s not used to feeling this out of control.

By the time they get to the bar, Arthur is so distraught that he all but throws himself onto the nearest stool, and doesn’t even look up before demanding he be presented with the strongest stuff in the house.

When he gets no response, he turns his face up to look at the bartender, and realizes two things with a start. First, he’s leaning much closer to said bartender than is probably socially acceptable, and second; the bartender has the nicest pair of eyes Arthur has ever seen.

This realization horrifies him most of all. It’s one thing to be left reeling at the loss of his cherished privacy and to be going half-crazy about impending academic challenges, that’s practically second-nature to him at this point. Noticing things relating to the relative aesthetic virtues of some man’s eyes, or of _anyone’s_ eyes, for that matter, is _not_.

He blames this initial moment of thrownness, of shocked vulnerability in the face of the decidedly unknown, for everything that happens next.

(Day 11)

Arthur hates living with Ariadne far less than initially anticipated. She’s quiet and tiny, and much of the time, he’s able to forget she’s even in the desk across the room from him. It helps that they agree on important matters like when sleep is for (the day time, if ever) and when dinner should be served (around 2 AM, if at all).

He also appreciates her love of espresso, mainly because it means she smuggles her gourmet espresso maker with her into their dorm once they’re more settled.

“You can stay,” he says lovingly, and neither of them ask themselves whether he’s talking to her or the coffee maker.

He then proceeds to make himself a cup to celebrate successfully not thinking about Eames the bartender all day.

Well, almost all day, anyway. Nobody’s perfect.

(Day 1, 818)

“If we’re going to perform inception, we have to be perfect,” Arthur says, voice stern, utterly serious. He’s been going over Robert Fisher’s bio for them all afternoon, talking so long his voice is hoarse, but he’s still standing up perfectly straight, showing no visible sign of fatigue.

Eames rolls his eyes and throws a pen at him, almost distractedly, and then says, “If we’re going to perform inception, what we’re _going_ to need is imagination, a little willingness to _improvise_. Getting bogged down in the details, hoping for perfection and _specificity_ will just get in the way.”

Cobb claps his hands together, and says, “Let’s try for a little bit of both, shall we, gentlemen?”

(Day 76)

Eames has his hands in Arthur’s hair, his teeth nipping at Arthur’s bottom lip, his jaw, his neck.

They’re out behind the campus bar, in an alley accented by neon street lights, and the brick wall Eames has Arthur pressed up against is digging painfully into his back.

Arthur can’t even bring himself to pretend he cares as he ruts against Eames, pushing up against him as roughly as Eames is holding him down.

(Day 152)

“What do you think about love?”

They’re walking, hand in hand, down the canal, each eating an ice cream with their other hand.

Eames takes a bite of his and says, “I’m against it.”

Arthur laughs, and says, “Yeah, me too.”

(Day 13)

“What do you mean, there’s no such thing as love?” Eames the bartender exclaims, putting down his signature bar-cleaning rag to emphasize, rather dramatically, that they have his full attention.

Ariadne rolls her eyes, probably because she’s drunk enough not to care about trying not to offend the sensibilities of her uptight new roommate, for once.

Meanwhile, said roommate is busy repeating himself. “I just don’t think we know enough about the human brain to claim such a state exists. I mean, there’s research on it, sure, but it’s mostly pseudoscientific hokum. The way I see it, the jury’s still out on “love.””

“The jury?” Eames repeats, looking equal parts enchanted and amused.

Ariadne has noticed he wears that expression a lot around Arthur.

Arthur just nods, as serious as only he can be while this drunk. “Until a board of scientific experts can prove, with solid theoretical analysis, backed up with peer-reviewed empirics, that love exists, then I think it’s our scientific duty to remain vigilantly skeptical.”

Eames smiles at him, more of a smirk, really, Ariadne thinks, and says, “That’s an interesting perspective you have there, darling.”

Arthur struggles to right himself, pulling himself up straight by the ledge of the bar, and wags a finger close enough to hit Eames several times in the face. “I’m nobody’s darling. It’s Arthur. Dr. Arthur, if you give me a couple more years.”

Eames’ smile is definitely more smirk, this time. “Maybe I’ll just settle for calling you Dr. Darling, how’s that?”

Arthur glowers, but even Ariadne can see his cheeks are pink, and she’s a lot further away from them than Eames.

“I guess that would be alright, but not until I have the credentials, of course.”

Eames nods solemnly, and hands Arthur another (free) drink. “Of course.”

(Day 347)

Arthur has been in the library for days. Possibly weeks. He can’t even remember what season it is without straining. He hasn’t been outside in what might actually be months.

But he’s close, he can feel it, feel the pieces falling together, the theory, the dream design, everything is finally starting to coalesce, and soon, somewhere behind the next book or journal, he’s going to find the idea, the last idea he needs, and it’s going to open all the doors, and he’ll _know_... Maybe not the truth of the universe, but at least enough for him to actually sit down and start writing his dissertation, and that’s good enough for him.

(Day 34)

“A date,” they say at the same time.

It’s hard to say who looks more skeptical, Arthur, or Eames.

Ariadne sighs, hands on hips. “Yes, a date. Preferably at a location other than this bar, preferably at a prearranged time that _doesn’t_ involve Arthur dragging me here for over-priced beer under the _flimsy_ pretense that we’re here for said beer instead of another opportunity for you two to subject each other, and _me_ , I might add, to your equally inept flirting techniques.”

Arthur and Eames stare at her, and finally switch to starting at each other.

She can only see their profiles, but both of their mouths are turning up into grins. She excuses herself to the ladies room while they formalize their plans.

(Day 260)

“It’s over.”

“What?” She’s just come into the door, arms full of groceries.

Arthur is curled up into a very un-Arthur like ball, arms and knees folded around a pillow.

“Eames, he said--” He looks off into space, jaw clenching. “He said he just wanted us to be friends. Said that’s all we were.”

“Oh, Arthur,” she breathes, immediately dropping her things and sliding onto the bed with him.

Exhibiting even more uncharacteristic behavior, he lets her pull him into a hug as she continues, “Maybe he was just having a bad day? You know how cranky he gets when he works a double-shift.” Eames is, on the whole, a decent guy. He just happens to also be an asshole.

But Arthur is shaking his head, and the blank, almost dead look in his eyes is rebuttal enough. “He said I was getting way too serious, that he’d never wanted that, and he thought I understood, because that was - that was our _deal_. No pressure, no strings, definitely no _love_.”

She makes a nonsensical soothing noise while carding her fingers through his hair. “But you guys are past that now, you’ve _been_ past that.”

Arthur makes a choking sound, a butchered laugh, and says, “Apparently not. I tried to give him some space - time for us both to cool down, but when I came to pick him up after work and talk more, he was too busy piling a pair of drunk co-eds into a cab to even notice me.”

As she holds him close, Ariadne finally has to agree with Arthur about the theory she’s spent most of their friendship trying to dissuade him of; love, if it exists at all, really is the worst.

(Day 174)

It’s Dom and Mal who eventually convince Arthur love is real. It’s hard to deny, around them. The passion and devotion between them is so strong, so electric that it almost seems quantifiable, as if it has a life-force, an energy, all its own.

Then again, Ariadne thinks, Eames can probably take some credit for it as well.

(Day 1, 798)

“We don’t just need a thief, we need a forger.”

There’s nothing but steely resolve in his voice, but the way Dom looks at him after, apologetic and yet full of hope, is the real reason Arthur can’t argue. He hasn’t seen anything close to hope on Dom’s face in years. They’ve never worked with Eames, despite his steadily rising reputation since Arthur saw him last, and he knows it was a sacrifice Dom made for him. But that was when the take was just money. It’s something so much more than that now, something Arthur can’t bear to deny Dom, not after all this time. Not even if it does mean sharing his space, and his mind, with Eames.

“I can get you his exact location, just give me a couple hours, and we’ll set you up with a flight,” Arthur says stiffly, and Dom nods gratefully.

Before leaving Arthur to his work, he says, “If there was any other way - if we could find someone else, or not do this at all, you know--”

Arthur nods tightly, needing Dom to stop talking before he loses the tenuous control he currently has over his facial features. “It’s fine, he’s the best, and that’s what we need.”

“Arthur,” Dom moves forward, taking one step, then two, hand outstretched, but Arthur backs away, forcing a small smile.

“It’s just work, Dom. We’re professionals, even Eames. Don’t worry about it.”

Dom doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway, and leaves without touching Arthur.

(Day 97)

They’re just waking up, sprawled all over each other in Eames’ bed, which is putting it generously. It’s mostly just a mattress on the floor of his living room, which is also putting it generously. His apartment is really just the one large room, a cramped kitchen and almost nonexistent bathroom. All the apartment is made to feel even smaller by slanted ceilings and bad lighting.

As an aspiring architect, among other things, the entire space offends Arthur.

Despite his many aesthetic and hygienic objections, however, he can’t deny that he finds the company a compelling enough reason to keep coming back.

He certainly minds the trail of ants crawling on the stack of plates on the milk crate beside the bed a lot less when Eames is kissing his shoulder, turning Arthur’s face away from the mess and pulling him into a rough kiss.

“Morning, love,” Eames says once Arthur has been thoroughly convinced the appalling decor is worth the other advantages of waking up here.

“Morning,” he says with a smile, still feeling loose and tingly from the kiss.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” Eames asks as he drags himself out of bed.

Arthur takes a moment to appreciate that Eames sleeps nude, regardless of their evening’s activities, and then answers, “I have to go to the library for a couple hours, and then Dom’s presenting his latest paper at the department’s colloquium.”

Eames nods, but Arthur can see tension settling into his bare shoulders. As usual, Arthur wants to ask him about the tattoos he has there, has all over his body, but as usual, he doesn’t.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, no, it’s my day off, but that’s just peachy. I’ll rustle up a poker game, win some money off some fat fish underclassmen.”

Arthur gets out of bed too, snaking an arm around Eames’ waist and kissing his shoulder blade. It surprises both of them, he never - almost never - is the one to initiate physical contact between them. Or any contact, really.

“Do you want to stop by after Dom’s talk? There’s free drinks at the faculty club for the first hour.”

Eames laughs, turning himself around in Arthur’s arms and shaking his head. “I think I’ll pass on the bourgeois wine and cheese, but how about you come find _me_ after you’re done and we can have some real fun, eh?”

Arthur considers telling Eames that listening to Dom give a lecture about advanced extraction techniques and then having an hour to talk about it with him after _is_ real fun, but instead he just nods, enjoying the imagined security of being in Eames’ arms, and leans up for another kiss.

(Day 1, 814)

Eames shows up to the warehouse every day with a new present for Arthur. The first week it was ties from Dunhill’s yet-to-be-released fall line, a different colour for each day of the week. The next it was cuff-links inlaid with Arthur’s favorite gemstones and lattes made with his favorite blend of Moroccan coffee, fresh enough that Arthur is genuinely concerned that Eames actually flew there to get it.

He throws everything away.

Eames notices, in fact he’s usually standing right behind Arthur, watching as he discards Eames’ offerings, but he keeps presenting the gifts every morning, without fail.

That particular day, Arthur only knows it’s morning because Eames puts a new package on his desk, covering the work that’s kept him in the warehouse all night.

“What is this?” he demands shortly, eager to get this part of his morning routine over with quickly.

“It’s a first release vinyl of the Smith’s self-titled debut. It’s a rare and precious commodity.”

“I hate the Smiths,” Arthur responds immediately, voice flat.

Eames’ smile shows only the slightest bit of strain. “Yes, darling, I’m quite aware of that. But it’s rare and precious to _me_. I thought perhaps you’d enjoy denying me the pleasure of ever listening to it again.”

Arthur considers this, thinks about the satisfaction that might come from snapping the record over his knee, knowing that Eames would probably adhere to the letter of the gesture, never listening to another version of the record again.

Instead, he tucks the record into his briefcase, and says, almost sincerely, “Thank you.”

(Day 311)

“Eames is gone.”

Arthur looks up sharply from his calculations, staring at Ariadne with a mix of shock and betrayal. They have a standing agreement not to say his name. It’s exactly as dramatic as it sounds, but Arthur doesn’t even care.

“He’s _been_ gone,” Arthur replies, voice tight and controlled.

She sighs, coming to sit down at the study carol beside him. “Yeah, but I mean, gone from _here_. From the city, from the country, maybe.”

“What?”

She shrugs. “I went to the bar, and one of the other bartenders told me he quit weeks ago, packed up his stuff, piled it on the side of the road, and left.”

Arthur stares down at his graphs on the effects of bending light patterns in dreams and hopes that if he just keeps staring at them for long enough, what Ariadne is saying won’t be true, or at least he won’t care about it as much.

He’s supposed to be _over_ this. Over feeling this weak, over feeling at all.

“Good riddance,” he says eventually.

Ariadne nods vehemently, resting her head on his shoulder, just for a second. “That’s what I said.”

The only difference is, when Ariadne says it, she actually sounds like she means it.

(Day 728)

“Eames?!”

“Arthur! You look marvelous,” Eames punctuates the comment with a salacious wink.

Arthur cannot believe this is happening, in fact, he _doesn’t_ believe this is happening, and he promptly turns his back on what has to be a projection of Eames, talking or no, and rolls his die on the closest flat surface.

He rolls it again.

A third time.

But with each roll, the resignation rises in his throat.

Not a dream.

Just him and Eames in a cafe in Berlin, where Arthur is scheduled to meet a promising new forger they’ve been recommended for their next job.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, when he can stand to look at Eames, here, alive, real.

Eames sits down, uninvited, his knees pressing against Arthur’s under the table. Arthur considers not giving Eames the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting a rise out of him, but sometimes survival trumps pride, and he tucks his knees as far away from Eames as he can get. If the cafe wasn’t so crowded, he’d leave the table entirely.

“I’m here for the job interview, dear Arthur, haven’t you heard? There’s a real buzz about me, I’m going places!” He says it with a wide, teasing smile on his face, but both of them know there’s a tense, painful edge under his words.

“Since when are you a forger? Since when do you care about dreams?”

Eames smiles at him sadly, all of the cockiness and smirking bravado is gone from his face. “Since you left me to disappear into them, of course.”

(Day 63)

Ariadne isn’t surprised to discover that Arthur is a good singer. He’s pretty much good at everything she’s seen him try so far, and she’s observed him long enough by now to know that if Arthur _isn’t_ good at something he simply refuses to do it.

But even though he _is_ good at singing, that’s no explanation for why he actually let himself be convinced to go up on stage and sing “Here Comes Your Man” in front of the whole bar and a good portion of their grad department. Arthur is good at plenty of things he won’t do, like cooking and being polite to stupid people. He _can_ do those things, very well, but he chooses not to. And so, just because his voice can dance between roughly seductive to strangely high and yet still appealing, that’s no reason for him to be sharing this talent with a bar packed with strangers, and worse, colleagues.

 _That_ particular turn of events is better explained by the way Eames all but stands up onto top of the bar while he cheers for Arthur, making him duck his head and blush when Eames’ wolf-whistles drown out the last few bars of the song.

(Day 201)

Arthur loves in-dream architecture, and he’s good at it. But Cobb tells him his real strength as a scholar is in his ability to identify and unpack the subtlest details from within the densest theory. It’s his ability to step back from the whole and see precisely how and why each microscopic piece fits together that Cobb says really makes Arthur special.

Given that Cobb is poised to become the most skilled extractor the world has ever known, and has been inside Arthur’s head multiple times, he sees no reason to question this assessment.

That’s when he decides that one day, he’s going to be a point man.

(Day 97)

Eames refuses to go with Arthur into even the simplest dreamscape. With anyone else, Arthur would put such reluctance down to a reasonable sense of privacy, or even fear. But since Eames has never shown himself to possess either of those qualities, Arthur is forced to conclude that Eames’ unwillingness is based on something else entirely. Something, Arthur suspects, that has more to do with a reluctance to enter _his_ mind than anything else.

What he can’t discern is why this conclusion both excites and troubles him.

(Day 1, 827)

“Are you _conspiring_ with him now, is that it?” Arthur demands, jabbing a finger accusingly in her face, after he catches her and Eames talking about what kind of fine cheeses he likes best.

She holds her hands up innocently. “No, it’s not that. He’s just... he’s just sad, Arthur.”

Arthur makes a noise, strangled and high, and for a minute, it’s almost like they’ve traveled back in time. She hasn’t seen him this emotive since college.

“He should be sad, we _want_ him to be sad. _Forever_.”

“Arthur, have you ever thought that, maybe, I don’t know. Maybe he had a better reason for breaking things off than you’ve assumed? Like maybe there’s actually a person down there, under the smirk and the bravado? Kind of like how there’s actually a person under there,” she pokes him in the chest, “You know, under the three-piece suit and robot-like demeanor.”

“I am not robot-like,” Arthur snaps. “I’m composed.”

Ariadne smiles sadly. “Okay, Arthur. You’re composed. I’m just saying, whatever you think you’ve needed to do, these past years, to cope, to move on, well, maybe it’s time to try something else. Maybe it’s time you forgave him, just a little.”

Arthur glares at her, eyes cold, and then he turns on his heels and walks away without a word.

(Day 270)

Eames has stuff to drop off. Some CDs Arthur lent him, school books he left behind, scattered across Eames’ apartment.

He calls Arthur about it several times, and receives no reply. Eventually, he settles for an explanatory e-mail citing time and place, and drops it off in a box labeled ARTHUR in front his and Ariadne’s dorm room.

He can hear them talking quietly behind the door, but he doesn’t knock, doesn’t ask to be let in.

This whole thing is hard enough without having to see the blank, stony look on Arthur’s face on top of it.

(Level two)

Arthur is going to be alone soon, alone fighting Fisher’s projections, and if he doesn’t win, none of them will wake up. He tells himself this is why he allows his hands to linger against Eames’ wrist as he attaches the PASIV. Why he lets his voice go low and fond when he says, “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

(Day 40)

Arthur has very specific plans to spend the day reading in his dorm. He has all the chapters marked out, has the goal he hopes to achieve in mind, and the goal he can stand to allow himself to stop at, if need be. Optimistically, he’s booked one of the dream-labs for that evening to apply some of the theory he’d learned, assuming he gets far enough in his research.

Instead, he wakes up to the sounds of Eames banging on his door.

“Come on, Arthur, you stick in the mud, it’s a beautiful fucking day, we’re having a picnic!”

“A picnic?” he shouts back incredulously, so thrown by the oddness of the proposal that he forgets he should be calling Eames an asshole for waking him up.

He can just imagine Eames leaning against the door, smiling through the oak like he already knows he’s won. Which, unfortunately, he has.

“Yeah, a picnic. I have the checkered blanket and everything, Arty, come on, you know you want to see my basket.”

“Basket is not, nor has it ever been, a suitable synonym for penis,” Arthur informs Eames matter-of-factly, as he yanks open the door.

Eames laughs. “Everything is a synonym for penis, if you try hard enough. And besides, I didn’t even mean it like that,” he holds up his basket. It has a little red ribbon tied to it. “Nice, right? I like where your head is, though. Keep right on thinking about my cock - it’ll make the whole post-picnic seduction go much more smoothly.”

Arthur stares at Eames, standing there in his doorway, holding a picnic basket and a bottle of cheap wine, wearing faded jeans and a skin tight white t-shirt, and decides that the picnic can wait.

(Day 23)

“You liiike him,” Ariadne says, giggling into her drink.

They’re at a back booth instead of sitting at the bar, for once, but Arthur shushes her anyway.

“Shut up,” he hisses, for a second time, and then, in the interests of clarity, “no, I don’t.” If he’s pouting a little, well, he’s blaming that on the tequila.

He really needs to stop letting Ariadne talk him into these things.

“You do, you like him,” she insists, and beams sappily, adding, “he likes you too. I can tell.”

Arthur sneaks a paranoid glance in the direction of the bar, and catches Eames staring. He jerks back around, flushing, but when he peeks back again, Eames is still staring at him, grinning now, and winks at him.

Ariadne laughs. “See, it doesn’t take a genius.”

(Day 40 and 1/2)

“Listen, mate,” Eames says, facing Arthur across the pillow, his lips almost close enough to touch, “I think you’re brilliant, really, and I want to keep,” he laughs, “showing you my basket, but--”

“Is this a we should just be friends talk?” Arthur interrupts. Eames nods warily, but Arthur continues on, unperturbed. “Because you can save your energy, preferably for more enjoyable things. Love is a fantasy. If it doesn’t exist, there’s no sense in trying to base relationships on it.” Arthur shrugs, “I’d rather base them on intellectual stimulation. Well, that and orgasms.” And Ariadne says he’s an elitist snob.

Eames chuckles, and says with faux-sincerity, “Has anyone ever told you that your practicality is actually very alluring?”

Arthur grins back, and moves over just a little, just enough to close the already minuscule distance between them.

“Just you,” he says, and covers Eames’ reply with a kiss.

(Day 398)

The break-up is Eames’ doing, and not even he would dispute that. The fact that they don’t so much as e-mail each other after that is Arthur’s.

(Day 1, 843)

Everyone else has abandoned the warehouse for sleep, even Cobb, but Arthur is still there, head bent over Ariadne’s layout for the second dream level.

He doesn’t even hear Eames come up behind him. Still, he grabs the hand Eames puts on his shoulder the second Eames makes contact and uses said hand to roll Eames over his back and land him on the ground at Arthur’s feet.

Eames coughs and smiles up at him. “Impressive.”

“Get out of here,” Arthur orders sharply, already sitting back down at his desk.

Eames does nothing of the kind, draping himself over Arthur’s shoulders, breathing against his neck.

“I will drop you again, and this time you won’t be getting up so quickly,” Arthur warns him.

Eames chuckles, and Arthur can’t conceal the involuntary shudder that follows as Eames’ lips almost brush against his jaw. A second later, Eames is gone from his space, standing a safe distance away, hands in his pockets.

“It’s a good design,” he remarks, as if he’s been here to talk business the whole time.

Arthur stifles a sigh, and reminds himself that at least _one_ of them has to be professional. “Ariadne’s work is always exceptional, but sometimes she indulges the dreamer too much. It’s how we got caught in the Cobol job, she lets us have too free a reign.”

He’s making a point about the wilderness adventureland Eames has requested for the third level, something that has sounded cartoonish, like a child’s fantasy, in his descriptions.

Eames ignores him, smiling like they’re having the most pleasant of conversations. “Bright girl, Ariadne. I’ve been so glad to see you’re still mates.”

“She’s a good friend,” Arthur admits carefully, and then spitefully allows himself to add, “I love her.”

Eames sighs, closing his eyes and bowing his head to pinch the bridge of his nose, and Arthur watches it happen almost in slow motion. For that one moment, head bowed, Eames is so perfectly still, so beautiful, that Arthur thinks he’s in a dream.

(Day 256)

“You love me? _Given_ your understanding of the accepted meaning of the term?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

Eames stares at him, his incredulity, if possible, getting stronger. “You’re _sorry_?”

“Yes,” Arthur nods tightly. “I know it wasn’t what we agreed. I’m sorry.”

Eames swallows hard, looks away, and when he turns back, his face is perfectly blank, the way only a still smiling Eames can be.

“I’m sure you are.”

He walks away without another word.

(Day 604)

“Do you love him?”

“Are you talking about Cobb?”

“Of course I’m talking about Cobb.”

“How could you even ask me that?”

Arthur shrugs.

“No. No, I am not in love with him.”

Arthur looks at her carefully. “Do you even believe in it, anymore?”

She smiles at him sadly. “With you two as an example, I almost wish I didn’t.”

(Day 1, 829)

“Either he's an evil, emotionless, miserable human being, or... he's a robot.”

“Come on, Eames. He’s not an evil, emotionless, miserable human being. He’s Arthur.”

Eames looks at her seriously. “So you’re saying your vote is for robot?”

Despite herself, Ariadne laughs. “I’m saying he’s not as different as you think. He’s still the same Arthur you knew, deep down,” she shrugs. “It just takes a little longer for him to trust people enough to let them get there.”

(Day 274)

“What happened?”

Arthur looks up from his book. “What?”

Dom is staring at him, eyes narrow with worry.

“What’s going on with you, Arthur?”

Arthur doesn’t know what to do with his hands, with the books around him. He feels like he should be making space for Cobb to sit down. He knows Cobb, of course, the department is tiny and Cobb is a big fish, but they’ve never really _talked_. Not about their lives, not outside of dreams.

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

Cobb tilts his head suspiciously. “No, no, Mal said something was wrong with you and she was definitely right.” He looms over Arthur, putting his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, “What happened?”

Arthur stammers for a second, shocked by the sudden proximity, but he manages to say, “Nothing, it was just. I had a fight with a, with my friend.”

Dom looks at him pointedly, and says, “You sure that’s all he was?”

They’ve been in each other’s dreams too much for Arthur to be surprised Dom knows who he’s talking about, so he just nods.

“Turns out.”

(Day 58)

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“No it’s not, it’s awesome. I’m serious, Arthur.”

“You are _never_ serious, never. And you’re picking _now_?”

“That’s right.”

“No.”

Eames bats his eye lashes imploringly.

Arthur laughs and elbows him away. “No, I said. You’re crazy. This is a public forum. There are _kids_ around.”

“Come on, do it for me.”

Arthur scoffs, “For you?”

Eames smiles winningly, just the slightest bit flirting, but practically subtle, coming from him.

Arthur draws a steadying breath, and says, “Penis.”

(Day 478)

After what happens with Mal, happens, Arthur starts to think that maybe Eames was right to end things when he did.

(Day 1, 837)

“You know, it occurs to me I never said--” Eames cuts himself off with a disgusted head shake.

Arthur considers waiting for him to just walk away, but despite himself he asks, “What? Said what?”

Eames shrugs.

“Well, what I probably should have opened with,” his smile is thin and self-deprecating, “that I’m sorry.”

Arthur blinks at him, taken genuinely by surprise. “For what?”

Eames scrubs the back of his neck with a hand. “For everything, I suppose. Not the good bits, though. I’m not taking those back for anything.”

Shocking them both, Arthur actually smiles, just for a half second, before he regains his customary stoicism and says, “You should pay more attention to the musical cues, I’m the one who picks them, after all.”

His mouth hangs open for a moment, but Eames leaves without saying anything else, and Arthur feels like he’s won the first one of these little verbal sparring matches Eames has insisted on having since they started this job.

(Day 126)

“It’s off,” Arthur announces darkly, throwing himself into the chair across from her.

She scrambles to rescue her coffee and blueprints before asking, “What’s off?”

“Me and Eames,”

She scoffs audibly, which just makes Arthur sulk more.

“What are you talking about? He’s crazy about you.” She keeps to herself exactly how crazy she thinks _Arthur_ is about him.

“Apparently not.”

She has to be in the dream-lab with Cobb and Miles in an hour, but she puts that out of her mind, and leans closer across the table, making eye contact to let him know what she’s going to do, and then takes his hands, asking, “What happened?”

Arthur looks like he doesn’t want to tell her, but he _always_ tells her, so she just waits.

Finally he sighs, and explains, “So we ran into each other at the grocery store, right, and we were waiting in this huge line, at least six people ahead of us, and I hadn’t seen him in awhile, so I asked, you know, how was your weekend.”

She nods. “And?”

Arthur throws up his hands, “And then he said _it was good_. Can you believe that shit?”

Ariadne shakes her head. “I’m sorry, what shit?”

Arthur huffs impatiently, “He said _it was goooood_ , by which he totally meant, _I spent the weekend having sex with skeezy bar patrons_.”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “Because he said _it was good_ when you asked him about his weekend? Really? Is that like how when a girl says “hey” instead of “hi,” she’s a lesbian? Because that’s just science.”

Arthur glares at her through his eye lashes. “I’m serious.”

“So am I!”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, teeth beginning to gnaw on his bottom lip.

Ariadne feels her stomach drop, just a little, _oh_.

“Are you sure?”

He nods.

“Yeah, he had, there were hickeys all up his neck, it was,” Arthur coughs, “I know what he looks like after sex. I’m sure.”

“Skank,” Ariadne says with feeling.

Arthur cracks the tiniest of smiles, and then straightens his shoulders, summoning stoicism.

“Whatever. I’m over it.”

(Day 480)

“Are you going because of Cobb, or because of Eames?”

He stops his frantic packing to look her in the eye when he answers, “I don’t know.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling.

“That’s okay. I don’t know why I’m going either.”

(Day 128)

“You punched me in the face!” Eames shouts, cradling his jaw. “I can’t believe you punched me in the face!”

Arthur waves his smarting hand through the air. “I kind of can’t believe it either.”

“Not a bad right hook for a bookworm,” Eames comments approvingly.

Arthur narrows his eyes. “I’ve had months of defense training, physical and mental, you know that.”

“Well it’s paying off,” Eames responds, turning around and walking back into his apartment, heading towards the freezer.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Arthur says as Eames lowers himself onto the couch, wincing as he presses a bag of peas to his face.

He waves Arthur off with his free hand. “No apologies, no regrets. Just pick yourself up, move on, and try to be less of an arsehole the next time around.”

Arthur sits down beside him hesitantly. “Is there going to be a next time?”

“Which part? The part where I shag someone else, or the part where you punch me for it?”

Arthur shrugs.

“We never said--”

“I know, I know. And I’m not, okay. I get that we’re - that it’s still - I just need a little more than this, I guess. I think I just need to know I’m the only one you’re... _this_ good friends with.”

Eames sighs, but after a few minutes, he says, “Alright, darling,” and puts his head on Arthur’s shoulder.

(Day 1, 804)

He knew Dom would find him, find Eames, but he’s actually a little surprised Eames said yes.

A lot surprised, even.

But Dom is back, and there Eames is, standing beside him, grinning at Arthur like they’re in the midst of a blissfully happy reunion.

“How was the flight?” he asks Dom, studiously ignoring Eames.

“It was fine, Saito flew us back in one of his private planes.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Saito caught up with you?”

Dom nods. “Got us out of a jam with Cobol, put us up in his hotel. I think he’s taking his investment in this one pretty seriously.”

Arthur just says, “I should hope so,” and they leave it at that.

Eames, on the other hand, has grown tired of being ignored, if the way he bounds up to Arthur and accosts him with smiles and outstretched arms is any indication. Arthur looks imploringly towards Dom, but he’s already walking away.

The traitor.

“Go away, Eames. You’re here to work, I’m here to work. That’s all this is.”

“Come on, Arthur. There’s no need to be like that. It’s been ages - I’m just happy to see you again. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“No.”

Eames pouts exaggeratedly.

“Not even just a little bit?”

“No.”

Despite this, Eames insinuates himself closer, pausing to adjust Arthur’s tie before saying, softly, “Well, I’ll just have to be happy enough for both of us, then.”

(Day 102)

“We’re not doing that,” Arthur says, eyeing the screen skeptically.

“Why not? My legs can totally support your weight, such as it is.”

“You will slip and we will both _drown,_ ” Arthur begs to differ.

Eames angles closer, lips against Arthur’s ear, whispering, “But what a way to go.”

(Day 310)

“I’m moving out.”

“What?” Ariadne demands faintly, “Why?”

Arthur just stares at her. “Why?”

“We barely see each other as it is, it’s not like you’re home enough to need a new one.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I just need more space. To work, to think.”

“To dream?”

Arthur eyes widen, and then his stare becomes focused, accusatory.

“I know what you’ve been doing, Arthur,” she says, sighing, “I know that half the time you’re under you’re there to be with him.”

“It’s not him,” Arthur says hoarsely. Not really.

Ariadne sits down beside him on her bed.

“I know that. But do you?”

(Level 1)

They’re in a dream, and if they die, they’re not going to wake up.

They’re not going to wake up, and Saito has been shot and Arthur screwed up the research and _Eames_ is down here. Down here with them.

If he gets shot, he isn’t going to wake up.

Arthur is shocked by how much the idea bothers him.

(Day 160)

Eames apartment may be a horrifying place, but Arthur comes to realize that it still means something, maybe something huge, that he’s the only one Eames lets into it.

That he’s the only one Eames makes terrible coffee for, the only one with whom he shares his dubious organizational system for his books and DVDs. The only one who knows that the picture of the family he has framed and hung in his kitchen isn’t really Eames’ family at all, just the elderly couple who lived next door to him most of his life and their two adult children.

And that he’s the only person Eames lies with, tired and worn out after a long day, their foreheads pressed together as they breathe in perfect unison.

(Day 302)

Arthur is siting on the bench at the top of the hill looking out onto the library. When Eames comes to sit down beside him, he immediately starts tracing his steps, checking to see if he knows how he got there.

He woke up, showered, avoided both Ariadne and breakfast, spent all morning in the library, and then came here after he couldn’t stand to be inside with his books anymore.

It’s plausible, exactly like him, but when Eames puts his hand over Arthur’s, he’s sure it’s a dream.

“Arthur,” Eames says quietly, softer than he would in reality, Arthur is sure.

He closes his eyes, and gives in, pressing his face against Eames’ shoulder, breathing him in.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

Eames make a sound, like a ragged gasp, and presses a kiss to Arthur’s hair, saying, “I miss you too.”

Arthur pulls away in shock; Eames never speaks to him in his dreams, one of the quirks of his projection.

Ignoring the way Eames is reaching out for him, calling his name, Arthur leaps off the bench. And then, abandoning all sense of decorum or dignity, he runs. Just runs and runs, until he can’t hear Eames calling after him anymore.

(Day 1, 873)

They’re down there for days, but when they wake up, they’re still all on the plane with Fischer, heading to LAX.

Dom stares at him like he can’t believe it, none of them can, really. Arthur grins back at him, hope and triumph surging through his veins, making him feel, suddenly, like he can do anything.

After performing inception, maybe he can.

(Day 1, 873 and 3/4s)

Dom goes home, back to his family, his life, but the rest of them end up congregating at the hotel bar across from the airport, drinking champagne and toasting each other.

Arthur even smiles at Eames, once, behind his glass.

(Day 1, 874)

Two bars later, Ariadne discovers they are in the proximity of a karaoke machine. She’s drunk enough that her reaction is incoherent cheering, and Arthur is close enough behind that he just grins and applauds this turn of events with her.

He’s even considering going up, something he hasn’t done in years, before he realizes Eames has beaten him to it.

He’s gone from the table, which Arthur is surprised he didn’t notice. Even now, he can’t help being hyper aware of Eames.

And yet, there he is, up on stage, having gotten there entirely without Arthur’s knowing it.

He’s standing awkwardly behind the microphone, shuffling his feet in a display of nervous so utterly without pretense Arthur almost feels like he’s looking for a stranger.

This effect is only amplified when Eames mutters, “This is for Arthur,” coughs, and then adds, “je t’aime aussi,” before breaking out into song.

It takes Arthur a few bars to get over the shock, and to realize that Eames is singing _Here Comes Your Man_ , exceptionally badly. He’s got no tone, no pitch, but he soldiers through, belting out the words and swaying his hips, and when he finishes, the whole place cheers for him.

Even Arthur.

(Day 1)

Eames starts banging on Arthur’s hotel room door at five AM and doesn’t stop until Arthur opens the door for him an hour later.

“You’re the worst person I know,” Arthur says sincerely, stepping back to let him in.

Eames grins, and Arthur wonders how any one could look so happy after so many shots of jagermeister. Arthur drank about half as much, and he’s still feeling it a day later.

“You love me,” Eames assures him with supreme confidence.

Arthur wants to punch him in the face, mostly because of how unconvincing he sounds when he replies. “No.”

Eames’ grin transforms into a soft smile, and he says, “Yes. You do. But it’s alright, this time I actually believe you.”

“Let me understand - you’re staying you believe I love you _now_ , when I am expressly denying that point, as opposed to when I actually _told_ you I loved you, is that it?” Arthur is amazed he can speak so clearly when he’s this livid. Not to mention hungover.

Eames just nods, looking supremely confident. “That’s right.”

Underneath the smugness, Eames looks happier than Arthur’s ever seen him.

“The worst,” Arthur repeats, cradling his pounding head. It’s gotten more painful since he let Eames in, he’s sure of it.

Eames tuts quietly, and cuts in smoothly, replacing Arthur’s hands with his own, beginning to expertly massage his scalp.

Arthur lets him.

They move to the couch, and Arthur allows Eames to make himself into a pillow, curling against his chest and sighing while Eames continues massaging his temples.

“I hate you,” Arthur reminds him, before moaning happily as Eames moves down to his shoulders.

Eames chuckles, and kisses his cheek.

“Of course you do, darling. I hate you too.”


End file.
